


The Blood on My Hands

by Spoodlemonkey



Series: Inktober/Goretober [17]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, Character Death, Gore, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 11:31:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16174196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoodlemonkey/pseuds/Spoodlemonkey
Summary: Stiles wakes up.It’s not the gentle return to consciousness accompanied by an actual full nights sleep- Stiles is propelled back into consciousness with a pounding in his temples and the thundering of his heart as he’s met with the dark sky littered with branches and leaves above. Grief. All consuming, so heavy it feels like a physical weight on his chest, makes his breaths short, panicked. His vision swims.He can’t remember why he feels like this.





	The Blood on My Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd and it kind of took on a life of it's own, it was originally going to be a LOT shorter but it was fun to write it! Let me know what you think!

Stiles wakes up.

It’s not the gentle return to consciousness accompanied by an actual full nights sleep, free of the recurring nightmares , or of the exhaustion they’ve all become so familiar with, the kind that settles deep in your bones, seeps into your muscles and nerves until it’s all you know. 

Stiles is propelled back into consciousness with a pounding in his temples and the thundering of his heart as he’s met with the dark sky littered with branches and leaves above.

There’s the initial panic that surges through him, has his breath catching in his chest. This isn’t his room, or Scotts, this isn’t even  _ indoors _ and the last he can remember is a roof over his head and ordering takeout because his dad was working late again. 

He pushes himself up until he’s seated, twigs and stones digging into his palms. He brushes them off on his jeans, takes stock of his surroundings. He knows this must be the preserve,  _ hopes _ it’s just the preserve. 

Who the hell knows what could be out there with him, but at least it means the pack is  _ close _ . 

He scrambles for his pockets, searching for his phone, but they’re empty. He twists, gets on his knees and searches frantically through the leafs and dirt and stones on the forest floor- the smell of must and decay fills his senses and he chokes back the nausea, tries instead to  _ think _ through the gap in his memory. 

“Stiles?” 

He swears, hand clutching his chest as his heart nearly  _ bursts _ at the rasping, chilling voice that echoes through the darkness. Oh god it’s probably a  _ ghoul _ come to sink it’s teeth into his vulnerable pale flesh, ripping chunks from his body as he dies a slow,  _ agonizing _ death. His free hand searches blindly for a stick or a rock or  _ something _ to protect himself with. 

“Is that you?” 

He hears it more clearly this time. 

“Derek?” Relief is a palpable thing, makes him dizzy with it. 

He drops the rock and scrambles in the direction of the voice. It’s dark enough that he doesn’t see Derek until he’s nearly on him, blindly searching hands finding the denim of his jeans first. He clings, harder than he probably should, but he’s basically just had a heart attack- he’s  _ allowed _ . He feels his way up Derek’s side when the man doesn’t make a move to stop him. In fact, Derek really isn’t  _ moving _ . 

“Derek?” He says again and this time a hand brushes against his thigh. The touch is light, uncoordinated. 

And then Stiles feels it- the unnatural give as he reaches Derek’s chest when he presses, desperate to feel his heartbeat. He jerks back, the acrid taste of bile on the back of his tongue. His hands are wet, warm, and he knows without looking what it is. 

“Stiles,” Derek slurs; his voice sounds wet, weak. 

“What happened?” His eyes are adjusting to the darkness surrounding them. He shrugs out of his hoodie, bunches it up and presses as hard against the wound as he dares. Derek whines, coughs, something rattles in his chest. “Why aren’t you  _ healing? _ ”

“Fairies.”

“How did we get here? Where are the others?”  It sounds like it’s taking all the strength Derek has to answer his questions, voice fading- and Stiles’  _ can’t _ think about the shallow, weak movement of the chest under his hands- but he also  _ can’t _ stop asking questions.

“Here.” Derek’s head lolls to the side and for one terrifying moment Stiles freezes. But his chest is still moving, albeit weakly. He tries to follow Derek’s gaze but it’s dark and all he can see are more shadows, strange shapes in the dark that could be anything. 

He thinks he hears Derek whisper his name again and then...and then nothing. There’s a slight breath and then its like all the tension seeps away from Derek and he’s still. 

Stiles stares down at his hands, mind uncomprehending. 

“Derek?” His voice cracks. He reaches up, touches his cheek- it leaves a dark smear and he recoils, horrified. “Derek.” He says again, louder. “Wake up !”

He curls his fingers, lashes out and strikes Derek, shakes him as desperation swells up until it’s almost crushing. There’s no recognition, no  _ life _ in his eyes and his head lolls like a rag doll when Stiles hits him. 

Stiles stumbles to his feet, desperate to get away suddenly, on numb legs. He staggers, trips over something and crashes to his knees again, stomach cramping as he vomits. He dry heaves, throat raw, eyes stinging. His arms nearly give out, depositing him in a pool of his own sick, but he heaves himself back, lands on something soft instead of the hard, cold ground. 

God, he doesn’t want to know, but he can’t help himself. He drags himself up, squinting in the dark and it’s a face he’d know anywhere. 

“Scott?” His eyes are closed, expression almost peaceful, like he’s only asleep but Stiles can feel how  _ cold _ the body beneath him is. There’s more though, he can see similar shapes in the darkness now, realizes it’s Lydia pressed along Scotts side, that this was who Derek had been trying to show him. 

A sob escapes him, it catches in his throat and everything feels too tight. A dream, this must be a dream. His hands are shaking, covered in blood when he lifts them,

  
Stiles wakes up. 

It’s not the gentle return to consciousness accompanied by an actual full nights sleep, free of the recurring nightmares , or of the exhaustion they’ve all become so familiar with, the kind that settles deep in your bones, seeps into your muscles and nerves until it’s all you know. 

Stiles is propelled back into consciousness with a pounding in his temples and the thundering of his heart as he’s met with the dark sky littered with branches and leaves above.

Grief. All consuming, so heavy it feels like a physical weight on his chest, makes his breaths short, panicked. His vision swims.

He can’t remember why he feels like this.

He’s panicking, he realizes, can hear his own laboured breathing, like a wounded animal in the silence of the forest. The preserve, he thinks, and tries to work passed the crushing grief and panic. The preserve means the pack is nearby, means Derek is nearby and that thought alone fills him with warmth, gives himself something to focus on. 

So how the hell did he get here?

He pushes himself up until he’s seated, twigs and stones digging into his palms. He brushes them off on his jeans, takes stock of his surroundings. He digs his hands into his pockets but they’re empty. The ground is cold when he twists, gets on his hands and knees, searching for his phone. Maybe it’s just fallen out, lost amongst the leaves and stones. The smell of must and decay turns his stomach and he breathes carefully out of his mouth as the nausea chokes him. 

“Who’s there?”

He swears, hand clutching his chest as his heart nearly  _ bursts _ at the rasping, chilling voice that echoes through the darkness. Oh god it’s probably a  _ ghoul _ come to sink it’s teeth into his vulnerable pale flesh- he freezes at the overwhelming sense of deja vu that washes over him. His heart is thundering in his  chest but he  _ knows _ without question who it is. 

“Derek?”

“Stiles,” comes the weak reply and the sound that escapes Stiles at the overwhelming relief that washes over him is probably closer to hysterics than is healthy. 

He half crawls, half stumbles through the darkness until he nearly trips over Derek’s prone figure.

“Am I glad to see you, buddy.” he collapses next to him. Through the canopy above them the clouds clear and the half moon shines down on them. 

Stiles gags, shrinks back in horror at the sight before him. Derek’s chest is a mess of blood and flesh peeled back like someone raked their massive claws right through him  _ over and over again _ . There are  _ things _ that Stiles should not be able to see and the stench of iron and decay chokes him and he knows he’ll never be able to forget it. His  _ face _ though- it’s like someone peeled the skin back all along the right side just to see what was underneath. 

“What,” his voice cracks, he has to bite his lip against the sob that threatens to escape, “what happened? Why aren’t you  _ healing _ ?”

He should- Stiles should be able to see the skin knitting itself back together, Derek should be getting better and he’s  _ not _ .

“Ghouls.” Derek pants and there’s a slick, wet sound to his voice. He coughs, and it rattles his lungs. God, how is he  _ still alive? _ “Still here.”

Stiles shudders, shrugs out of his hoodie and bunches it up. He hesitates over the wound- it’s  _ massive _ but he’s bleeding out, he can feel it seeping through the knees of his jeans, so he has to stop it before they can get to Deaton for help. He presses it against Derek’s chest, cringing at the pained moan it elicits. 

“Let’s get you out of here, okay?” He has no idea how they’re going to do this- there’s a massive gap in his memory of how they got here, but he can’t sit around doing  _ nothing _ . Not if the option is Derek bleeding out, slowly and horribly. 

“Stiles,” he shushes Derek, tries not to think about how the material of his sweater is already soaked through.

“It’ll be fine,” he grits out, feels tears sting at his eyes and has to blink them away. He can just make out the hint of Derek’s smile in the dark, and it still pulls at his heart strings despite what’s been done to him. Derek’s eyes slip closed. His body goes lax.

“No,” Stiles whispers, denial coursing through him. “No, no, no,  _ no please Derek _ ,”

His hands are clenched in the drenched fabric of his sweater- he rips it violently from Derek, throws it away, grabs at him, flesh slick with blood, ripped open in some places, and shakes him. 

“ _ Not you, please not you _ ,” he sobs, digs his nails in and feels skin give way beneath them. He jerks away, vomits all over the forest floor until he’s shaking, dry heaving and then he hears them. 

It doesn’t make sense to him at first, the slick sound, something tearing and the constant moans of  _ hunger _ . Everything inside him is screaming at him to keep his eyes closed, to move, to run. Anything but to  _ look _ .

The creatures are grey, lumpy shapes, almost like they were human once and simply  _ forgot _ . Their arms and legs are long and thin, spindly, with grey flesh peeling off of them in long strips. The stench of rot and decay cling to them and if Stiles had anything left to bring up he would be; he gags but they ignore him focusing on the feast before them. 

_ The pack. _

It’s not real, it’s a dream, he tells himself. 

A sob escapes him, it catches in his throat and everything feels too tight. A dream, this must be a dream. His hands are shaking, covered in blood when he lifts them,

  
  


Stiles wakes up.

It’s not the gentle return to consciousness accompanied by an actual full nights sleep; Stiles is propelled back into consciousness with a pounding in his temples and the thundering of his heart as he’s met with the dark sky littered with branches and leaves above.

Grief. All consuming, so heavy it feels like a physical weight on his chest, makes his breaths short, panicked. His vision swims.

The overwhelming sense of deja vu as he sits up, searches his pockets for his phone, searches the ground on his hands and knees. Deja vu when he hears his name, heart in his throat as he crawls over to where Derek is lying on the cold packed earth. 

“This isn’t real,” he whispers. Derek coughs, the sound rattling in his chest. 

God there’s just  _ so much blood. _ He can’t even see where it’s coming from, it’s  _ everywhere _ . How can he stop the bleeding if he can’t find it?

“This has to be a dream,  _ please _ let this be a dream,”  A sob escapes him, it catches in his throat and everything feels too tight. A dream, this must be a dream. His hands are shaking, covered in blood when he lifts them. He counts his fingers, one, two,  _ this can’t be real _ , three, four,  _ he can’t lose him _ , he loses track. He tries again. And again. Swears. Pleads, begs,  _ bargains.  _

“Stiles,” Derek’s grip is loose, weak, where its come to curl around Stiles’ hand. He cradles it, holds on tight like he can somehow hold on to Derek this way. “‘M sorry,”

“ _ Don’t _ ,” he begs. There’s still time, there’s still a chance to get Derek out of there, to get him to Deaton because he  _ still isn’t healing _ . “Don’t apologize, let’s just get you out of here, okay buddy?” 

If he could just figure out where all the  _ blood _ is coming from, he can’t even see where the fairies- where the ghouls…

“Derek,” a puzzle is forming in his head, the pieces slowly coming together. “What attacked you? Where’s the pack?”

“There,” Derek’s head lolls to the side and for one terrifying moment Stiles freezes. He tries to follow Derek’s gaze but it’s dark and all he can see are more shadows, strange shapes in the dark that could be anything. Wasn’t the moon out before?

“Derek,” he says more firmly, pushing aside the terror and grief. “ _What_ _attacked you_?”

“...” Derek pants out the words and there’s a slick, wet sound to his voice but Stiles can’t understand him. He coughs, and it rattles his lungs. God, how is he  _ still alive? _ “Still here.”

God, it’s just like last time- he’s going to have to watch Derek bleed out  _ all over again _ . 

No that’s not right, this has never happened before.

“Stiles?” He blinks, realizes he’s frozen in place. He can’t shake the overwhelming feeling this has happened before. He  _ can’t  _ go through this again. 

“Let’s get you out of here,” he uses his grip on Derek’s hand and hauls him up. It feels like he’s moving in slow motion, and Derek is useless against his side, heavy, unable to support his own weight. He groans in pain, coughs and Stiles can feel the splatter of blood against his neck from it. 

“Come on big guy,” Stiles pants. “One step at a time.”

They don’t make it far. Derek sags against him more and more until Stiles is practically dragging him. His breathing is harsh, uneven, and when they hit a root, he can’t keep himself up, dragging Stiles down with him. 

The pained sound that Derek lets out when they hit the ground will haunt his nightmares. He’s out of breath when he rolls Derek onto his side, covered in blood that isn’t his own. Frustration is fueling his desperation and the grief is choking him until he’s certain that he’s the one that will stop breathing first. 

“Just a quick break,” he tells Derek, “catch our breath and keep going.”

Derek doesn’t reply. 

He’s too still.

Stiles rolls him onto his back, presses his palm to his chest, his ear above his lips. There’s no heartbeat, no breath. 

“Derek,” His voice cracks. He reaches up, touches his cheek- it leaves a dark smear and he recoils, horrified.  _ Where _ is all this blood coming from? He’s soaked in it, can feel it dripping from his fingers, counts them again- one, two,  _ this is all a dream _ , three, four,  _ there is no reality where he loses Derek Hale _ , five, six,  _ they’ll have to go through him first _ \- wait.

  
  


Stiles wakes up.

It’s not the gentle return to consciousness accompanied by an actual full nights sleep; Stiles is propelled back into consciousness with a scream on his lips. He howls out into the night air, screams until his voice is hoarse, his throat sore. He screams until there is no air left in his chest, screeches against the fury and the grief, until he’s left panting on the cold, packed dirt and he doesn’t even know why. 

And then he sits up, searches his pockets for his phone, pushes up onto his hands and knees, searching listlessly for the phone that he knows won’t be there. 

“Stiles?”

He presses his head against the cool earth, breathes in the smell of must and decay. God, he’s so  _ tired _ .

  
  


Stiles wakes up.

It’s a slow process, every inch of his body screaming at him to ignore it, to let the sweet siren call of sleep sweep him back under. There are hands on his body, a light weight on his chest, something warm against his cheek. It soothes the raw, jagged feeling that threatens to overwhelm him as consciousness slowly returns. But the grief is still there, the terror he can’t quite name and a whimper must escape him because a soft voice hushes him, reassures him. He latches onto it like a drowning man, uses it to pull himself out of the void further and further.

The ceiling of the loft swims into view first.

He’d know it anywhere, the exposed beams, the pipes that Lydia calls rustic in a homeless sense. It feels close enough to home that it helps settle something wild in him. 

And then a face appears above him, blocking his view of the ceiling. He takes in the kaleidoscope eyes, the stubble and full, downturned lips. 

“Derek,” he says, or tries to. His voice catches in his throat, too dry, rough like he hasn’t spoken in ages. 

“You’re okay now,” the frown disappears, quickly replaced by a relieved smile that has Stiles’ heart pounding. “You’re at the loft.”

“W’happened?” he rasps, twists his head but can’t make out any of the pack nearby. It sends a shock of panic through his system, though he can’t quite remember  _ why _ . Just...fragments. “Ghouls?”

“A djinn.” Derek shakes his head. “We just got you back from it. Scott and the beta’s were taking care of it, Lydia and Allison are with Deaton just in case killing it didn’t wake you up.”

They’re okay, he tells himself firmly, but he’ll only feel better once he sees them in person. He can’t keep lying there not when...when...He sits up, only to realize Derek’s hand has been on his face when it suddenly falls away. Shit- his cheeks burn red and Derek sits back, looks like he wants to reach out and help but is holding himself back.

“I was dreaming?” He goes to scrub his hands over his face, to work the grit out of his eyes, freezing, expecting to see them covered in blood. They’re clean. Clean. No blood. One, two,  _ the sounds of a car driving by filters in _ , three, four _ , the late afternoon sun is warm on his skin _ , five,  _ Derek meets his gaze and doesn’t look away _ . “I’m awake.”

Derek nods and there’s something so vulnerable to his expression; Stiles can’t imagine what he’s showing in his own. 

“ _ Fuck _ .” He exhales, scrubs a hand through his hair. A laugh bubbles up, slips out- it sounds hysterical even to his ears so he bites his lip, smothers it. He knows Derek won’t ask him what he saw, knows he’s curious, aching to help. 

Stiles isn’t ready to piece together the scattered fragments of his nightmares. 

He reaches out, doesn’t let himself think about it, just gets a grip on Derek’s shirt and tugs, forces the man to move or risk ripping the fabric. He pulls him, arranges him to his liking on the couch, underneath him where he can press his ear to his chest, can listen to the steady thump of his heart. 

“Stiles?” Derek’s arms come up tentatively to wrap around him, hold him tight against him. 

He shakes his head, presses his lips firmly together and tries not to focus on anything other than the steady beat of his heart. 

“Whenever you’re ready.” he tightens his grip on Stiles, almost too tight and it’s perfect, secure, safe. 

“Just- just talk to me, okay?” He can’t get the sound of Derek’s ragged, wet breathing out of his head. 

“What about?”

“ _ Anything _ .”

Neither one of them move for a long while. 

  
  
  



End file.
